Daisy Staircase Kayla Vasilko

such roads, especially after dark. She wandered into the road and when cars intermittently came through, she didn’t have the sense to run. Drivers didn’t seem keen on slowing down either. One driver saw her late, swerved, temporarily lost control, slammed on his brakes, shouted at us, and drove on.

I tried an experiment. After I saw or heard a car coming, I commanded firmly, “Come here now.” My companion ran to me immediately and stood by my left side as I faced the road. When it was safe, I told her, “It’s okay now,” turned, and walked forward, thereby granting her license to roam freely. I added an element: when she came and stood by me, I took my left walking stick and held it in front of her to demonstrate, symbolically, I was protecting her. She then cuddled my leg for the first time. That became our modus operandi.

When we reached town, we stopped at the first bar. The bartender said they were closed but not to lose hope, there was another bar down the block. Two minutes later, when we reached the next bar, a mug of beer waited for me and a two-liter bowl of water awaited my companion, who splashed water all around, but cleaned up before leaving.

I continued walking as if the sun were rising. I had no glimmering how to find shelter or what to do about my companion. I worried that she had wandered so far from where we met. Would she be safe on the street alone at night? What if she wandered back to the busy road where she’d nearly gotten killed? Assuming she survived the night, could she find her way home come morning? Was someone worried about her? I preferred the prospect of snuggling with my companion in a cold alley over finding a warm bed and being separated.

A car pulled up on my left, driven by the only English speaking staff member from the Monastery where I spent the night before.

She asked: “Why are you out so late? D’you need help?” She jumped out and put my walking sticks and backpack in the hatch. As I sat down, she said,

“I don’t know what to do about the dog.” My companion whined, jumped into the car, squeezed into a little ball, and sought refuge under my legs.

“I guess that settles that . . . for now,” she said.

I reached down and held my companion, who seemed frightened.

After finding the town’s only two hotels were shuttered until spring, the monastery staffer said, “We have one more option. I just left a meeting at the priest’s house.”

We drove there, she spoke with the priest, returned to the car, and said, “You’re in. I’ll take her home and keep her outside tonight. In the morning, I’ll bring her back to the neighborhood on her collar, Les Ingles.”

I squatted down, held my companion, read her name on her collar, and said, “See you again, Zita.”

The priest led me upstairs, gave me a sheet of yellow bubble-wrap to use as my mattress, led me to the kitchen, and pointed to the floor. Many times during the sleepless night it crossed my mind that it would have been softer, warmer, and kinder huddling anywherewith Zita.

Come morning, my first thought was, “Where’s Zita?” Then, I remembered, we were no longer together. I wondered, was she home safely by now? Would Ibe safe without her?

***

Throughout the homebound flight, I thought about Zita. I fantasized going back, finding her, flying her home. Once home, I felt connected, could hear what my wife Ginger said and remembered how to eat, sleep, breathe.

Eight months later, after starting a new job, I contacted the person from the monastery who led me to the priest’s house and took Zita home. I thanked her and asked after Zita. She said that when she brought Zita home, she refused to budge until she called her in English. She said she drew the conclusion that Zita spoke English and that’s why she responded to me. She also said we’d have no trouble finding Les Ingles. After reaching Noailhac, we’d just have to follow the marked green signs.

A few weeks later, Ginger and I flew to Toulouse, then drove north to Noailhac, hoping Zita would be waiting to lead us uphill to St. Roch’s Chapel. But, no Zita. I said, “Maybe she’s already gone up.” We hiked up the muddy hill but no Zita inside the chapel either. Wasn’t this her place? I felt empty.

As we pulled up outside Les Ingles, Zita ran to greet Ginger as a familiar friend, even though they’d never met before. Moments later, we met Zita’s owner. After I recounted my Zita story, he palmed his forehead, and explained Zita ran off repeatedly to accompany strangers on far-flung journeys and got back home only through the kindness of strangers.

Zita ran big, interlocking circles on a deeply green pasture as she herded a neighbor’s cows. She charged at cows not readily cooperating. Her owner took us inside his home overlooking the pasture, served us tea, displayed his wondrous library, and told us we could rent his home anytime for 450 Euros per week. When I asked whether Zita came with it, he laughed, “If you take Zita, the price goes downto 350 Euros.”

The following week, my wife and I, accompanied by our two children, resumed the pilgrimage where I left off nine months earlier. Since it was summer, all the bed and breakfasts for pilgrims and walkers were open, but there was vastly more competition for these beds. As we were four, not one, and in consideration of my mixed experience in finding a bed when I needed one on my solo trip, this time I made reservations. With that one concession, we trusted The Way to work its magic.